Mukwonago High School - Arrow Yearbook (Mukwonago, WI)

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-T H E A R R () W—i a sk nineteen The bent, sorrowing little woman from Italy was returning. Timidly she approached a guard. “I have lost my way,” she said tremul- ously, “where do I go?” The officer, touched perhaps by the appeal in the voice, told her slowly, carefully. And when he had finished the Italian turned her soft dark eyes upon him. “God bless you,” she said reverently, and the words were as a bene- diction. Below the man by the clock, as before, lay the Union depot, but within its vast walls he saw only the little foreigner pouring forth her gratitude. And feeling that he had witnessed something holy, the man on the stairs arose and passed out into the night. m------------------- THE AEROPLANE IN THE WAR It seems almost impossible to realize the benefits of the aeroplane in modern warfare. In the earlier history a cannon was the most effective machine of defense on the ships, and the old musket on land. Now an innumerable list of devices are in use. There are several important ones and those are namely, machine guns, bombs, and in reality the most important of them all is the aeroplane. Now the term aeroplane includes all air ma- chines which are supported by planes. That is, there are different types of aeroplanes, as the biplane, monoplane, triplane and several modified ones similar to these. Then again there is a division of machines used for differ- ent purposes for land and water fighting. The aeroplane’s usefulness has never been realized until this great war began, or definite- ly speaking it has never before had a chance to prove its usefulness and efficiency. Now' the most modern and effective model of war- fare is in hydroplanes, and biplanes. It wras stated by one of England’s greatest generals that one well manned aeroplane was worth one hundred fighting men in the field. Roughly speaking an aeroplane concentrates the efficiency of one hundred men into one, ■ thereby greatly strengthening the effective- ness of an army or navy, whichever it may be. The mode of fighting from an aeroplane is very interesting, especially the action of the machine gun and bomb dropping devices. The machine gun is mounted upon the hood of the machine and shoots through the fast revolving propeller. The way this is accomplished is that the ma- chine gun works with the engine and the gun is timed to shoot just as the blades of the propeller are passed. There are thousands of aeroplanes perform- ing the separate functions required of them in the war in Europe and in a matter of fact will in our war with the German allies. The greatest battles of the w’ar have been fought by the fleets of air vessels. The large German dirigible, which caused so much fear in Lon- don during the early months of the war. has gone out of existence and small light crafts are taking its place. The dirigible was a large mark, a magnificent mark for the guns on land and also a clumsy framew'ork of steel. The aeroplanes of today are exceedingly light, simple and durable. The most important factor about an aeroplane is its durability. It was customary some time ago to speak of the aero- plane as our frail aeroplanes, but now it is dif- ferent. A load of thousands of pounds may rest on any part of a machine. A man has no more effect walking on the planes of a machine than on the ground itself. The motors are ex- ceedingly light and powerful, for example a one hundred horse power engine only weighs from 150 to 200 pounds and range from three to twelve cylinders. The motor, as it naturally would seem, is the heart of an aeroplane and if once the motor stops, the other mechanism is practically useless, even in the hands of a good pilot. Flying an aeroplane seems a foolhardy idea, but if one would ask a person from France which would be the safest place to be, he would say in the air. The aeroplane industry of the world has increased since its infancy, twro-fold that of automobiles and it has certain- ly accomplished wonders for the world during this period. m--------

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 T II E ARRO W—PAGE EIGHTEEN Mukwonago is a village of homes. I see more of them than anything else. No filthy smoke pollutes the air and the streets are not thickly crowded. At the upper end I see a depot and a small colony of buildings. A mas- sive, grayish-white High School looms up as a banner of a regiment might. I take the glass, and I am pleased with what I have seen. It is comfortable and beautiful even in its narrow life. —EMMET SHERIDAN. ------------------► THE MAN ON THE STAIRS It was a cold, dull night in April when the sharp, sighing wind and the throbbing, patter- ing rain muffled the roar of the long, swift trains as they rushed into the gloom of the Union depot, carrying their cosmopolitan bur- dens which were nearing a common destina- tion. The coaches halted, and a weary, protesting multitude poured forth, thronging up to the steps of the station with impatient haste. The lights of the depot streamed warmly out upon the jostling travelers, shining radiantly upon one of them, one who held himself a lit- tle aloof, outwardly oblivious of the rain. It was this one who passed hurriedly out of the brilliant band of light which had indicated him as plainly as the footlights outline the star performer, and on into the building. There he ascended a second flight of steps until he stood beside the gigantic clock which, day after day, informed the passers-by of the flying time. Below him lay the interior of the Union depot, each crevice of whose walls was plain- ly visible in the glow of the lamps. Below him were people, many, many people—hurrying, al- ways hurrying. Below him lay the tragedy of life—tragedy so mixed with happiness that it was not always recognized. But it was there. Sadly the silent observer admitted that it was there. Tragedy in the face of the little bent Italian woman who stood cringing beneath the quick, stern directions of one of the guards. Something in that furrowed, grief-stricken face, something in the dark, sorrowful, beautiful eyes made the man by the clock understand. “There has been a death,” he said, “a death, and she is going back.” He turned again to the clock, wondering, conjecturing about the scenes it must have witnessed. And then the man beside the clock, because he was a poet and an author, began to imagine, weaving the fragments of lives which he saw below him into short yet fanciful biographies of the people there. Had the clock ever done it, he wondered. Directly beneath him stood a group of men in comfortable overcoats and silk hats; dia- monds glittered on their fingers, and most of them carried canes. They were financiers, judged the man on the stairs. He could hear them talking about investments. One of them mentioned “watered stock ’ and the others laughed. “We won’t be caught,” said one dis- tinctly. “Besides, when we’ve got what we want and it begins to look dangerous we can get out.” The rest of the words the author above them did not hear, until one of the group said. “I’m old-fashioned, I suppose, but this isn’t straight and I don’t want to be in it.” With new interest the unseen observer looked at the face of the man who had just spoken. It was a rugged face, with clear cut features, and the eyes were blue, honest blue. The poet looked again and saw the face of a boy. A boy whom everyone trusted, a boy who was depend- able, a boy who would not hesitate to say, “but this isn’t straight and I don’t want to be in it.” The financiers moved away and the author saw that two ragged little children were stand- ing near the stairs. He could not hear what they were saying, but he imagined that they had come there to wait for a father and a mother who had been away on a brief, hard- earned vacation. Expectancy was written in each homely little face. An elderly gentleman and a young woman were approaching the ticket office. As they came nearer, the man on the stairs heard the girl say impatiently, “Oh yes. father, I do know how you feel. We’ve talked it over so many, many times. I have talent; isn’t it only right that I go away to develop it? I do not want to live here with the money you are giving me. I want my own. The money 1 have earned in my profession.” A look of torture crossed the countenance of the man beside her. “It’s all right,” he said huskily, “but oh, I shall miss you, Elizabeth!” A middle-aged man and his wife crossed over to the stairs and stopped there for a moment. “This is the first real vacation we’ve had to- gether for three years,” they said happily, “isn’t it fine?” They laughed joyously as they passed out through the swinging doors.

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 T II E A R R () W—I AGB TWENTY GIRLS’ CLUB ( L. T. L.)